


Introductory Railway Safety and Tension Relief

by RileyAnnaOlson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 90's Music, F/M, Meet-Cute, Spice Girls References, Strangers to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers to Partners in Crime, Trains, romania - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyAnnaOlson/pseuds/RileyAnnaOlson
Summary: You've never been one for small talk with strangers, but this train ride is just that dull and the red-haired boy behind you just has that good of a laugh. Dubbed "your Charlie Weasley makeout fic" by my closest friend and strongest supporter.
Relationships: Charlie Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Charlie Weasley/Reader, Charlie Weasley/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Introductory Railway Safety and Tension Relief

Your shoulders are aching an hour into the train ride, halfway from Bucharest to that awful village your grandma won’t leave. (“I won’t be buried without Grandpa,” she says. You almost say, “so move to the city and we’ll haul your body back someday.” But you love her. So you don’t.) The kink doesn’t roll out either; it just makes awful creaking noises. How is there no spell for this? Some No-Neck-Tension Potion?

After a particularly juicy _crrrrack!_ the wizard behind you laughs. You turn your head, partly to stretch, mostly to see _who_ _has the audacity_. He’s barely older than you (maybe?) so freckled you think at first he’s just brown, with red hair and a stained black tee -- then you can’t look because he’s figured out what you’re doing and laughs again. Now your neck feels flushed instead of sore. 

“Ever try yoga?” he says to the back of your head. 

“I’m not religious,” you say.

“Ah, no, just the physical practice. The Muggles are really onto something.” 

“They sure are sometimes.” You turn around to be polite. Oh, poor thing, he’s got those British teeth, with a gap almost big enough for the straw of his nondescript fast-food soda. 

“Like jeans. Life-changing!”

“Jeans?”

“In my line of work.” 

“What line’s that? Cowboy?”

“Close,” he says, and you realize what you thought were stains on his shirt are singes. One matches a long, shiny burn on his upper arm. 

“Dragon tamer?” 

“Aw, tamer makes it sound like we aren’t friends!” Even with the British teeth, he’s got one of those high-energy smiles that’s damn hard to fake. 

You smile right back. “Say, Spice Girls -- _that’s_ life-changing. Listen to the Spice Girls at all, dragon boy?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Good point. Ginger Spice,” you add, and he ducks his head and laughs again. You start calculating, gauging what else you can say to keep him laughing like that. 

He chews on the bendy end of his straw. “So what do you do? Aside from listen to Spice Girls.”

You drape your arms over your seat back. “This week? Wrangle Granny to appointments.”

“Ooh, those were the days,” he says, which might mean it isn’t his job anymore, or that his grandparents are dead. You don’t ask; somehow it feels like dead-grandparent talk would kill the mood, whatever this mood is. “What did you do last week?” he asks, and you decide the mood. 

“Hung around uni parties in scanty little dresses, mostly.”

“ _Those_ were the days!” 

“Sorry you missed them.” If your laugh is breathless, he doesn’t know your standard laugh enough to tell the difference. “How long till the station?”

He pulls a tarnished pocketwatch from his jeans. “Why, bored?”

“Could be worse.”

His voice drops and he leans in a breath. “If you wanted...yknow, to keep busy...we could…” he grins, “we could find the alphabet on signs out the window!” Your friends swear you aren’t _that kind_ of girl, but you must be, because you look so _disappointed_ that his laugh almost knocks him over, barely able to gasp out his actual suggestion. 

The door to the toilet slides shut behind you. Thirty seconds to yourself is enough to whip up a breath-freshening spell and roll the waistband of your skirt like the old days. Did that lemony Divination teacher warn that bucking dress code drags you down a path of depravity to snogging handsome strangers in train lavatories? Yes, in those very words. A cautionary tale, that’s what you are.

Then he’s _there_ , curly head brushing the buzzing light. He doesn’t even talk, just grins and lifts you onto the sink like you weigh nothing (you take _that_ little ego boost and internalize it!) And it’s good -- he’s good -- too good; it’s _not fair_ \-- not that it’s a competition, but some little brat in the back of your head wants payback; he’s got to feel exactly this... _undone_. Your hands slip under his shirt to find another burn tight across his ribs, and he’s about to return the favor...

Stomping in the corridor outside. At least four people. Some man starts talking to the warlocks. “Wait, wait,” your boy whispers as he catches a name.

“We know he got on this car!”

_You?_ you point. He doesn’t reply, listening too intently. 

The warlocks’ replies are muffled but sound unhelpful, and the man snaps, “He’s a dangerous thief; you _should_ have paid attention.” The stomping passes, headed for the back. 

You feel queasy -- and not from the train’s motion. “What’ve you done?” you whisper, pushing him back. “No, honest, what did you do? ‘Dangerous thief,’ are you kidding?”

“Listen,” he whispers back. “Before I hopped this train I freed some dragons being abused in a menagerie, so yes! Thief. And I Stunned the handlers on the way, so yes! Dangerous. But not to you.” 

“Merlin’s ass,” you hiss, but “potential murderer” to “renegade rescuer of innocent animals” is a hell of an upgrade. 

He peeks out; you sneak under his arm to see what he’s seeing. Three big men in dark cloaks block any path to your mum’s overnight bag and his giant rucksack. Opposite you, the autumn landscape rolls by through the exterior door. “Right.” He shuts the door. “They’ll have reinforcements at the station.” He runs his fingers through his hair. Then he looks at you, really looks, like he’s guessing exactly who you are before he asks. “Ever jumped out of a moving train, Posh?”

“Of course not!”

“Wanna learn?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Come on,” he says with a smile that damningly proves you don’t actually mind those jacked-up British teeth. “ _Spice up your life!_ ”

“Oh, horrible,” you chide. He takes your hand in his scarred one. “Say,” you add, “now we’re so close, is it odd to ask if you’re any good at neck massages?”

He lets out a quick laugh. “No, that is a particular skill of mine. I’m glad we’re close enough that it’s not odd to offer.” The men talk louder, guffawing like movie villains. “You ever do gymnastics?”

“Little bit.”

“Tuck and roll, right?” 

You barely have time to agree that yes, that is a thing in gymnastics when he starts counting. Three: does it matter you haven’t done gymnastics since you were seven? Two: couldn’t he kiss you till the men leave instead? One: YOU ARE ABOUT TO JUMP OUT OF A MOVING TRAIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, check out my other Harry Potter fics:  
> Verity's Story (G, Fred/Verity, 32k words): https://archiveofourown.org/works/25143589  
> Four Little Love Stories (G, Angelina/George Arthur/Molly Penelope/Percy Hannah/Neville, 3k words): https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687694  
> Something Wicked (T, crossover with Spring Awakening, 17k words): https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119159


End file.
